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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592277">Rest A-Sheared, And Don't Get Offended By My Big Frocabulary</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU'>CookieCatSU</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Smile For Me (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Image, Dr. Habit's parents suck, Habit's hair is really important to him, Hurt/Comfort, Kamal is a good bf though, M/M, Mirrors, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Support, yeah - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:35:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You need to cut this" His mother says, with a pinched brow and a twisted frown. Disapproval leaks off of her in waves.</p><p>Habit refuses to look at her.</p><p>"I like it" He says, but he knows that's not enough.</p><p>Or; Habit's parents both have some outdated beliefs, and questionable parenting methods. Boris does the best he can with what he's got.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kamal Bora/Dr. Boris Habit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rest A-Sheared, And Don't Get Offended By My Big Frocabulary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>"You need to cut this," His mother says, with a pinched brow and a twisted frown. Disapproval leaks off of her in waves.</p><p>Habit refuses to look at her.</p><p>"I like it," He steels himself, little shoulders hunkering down and in, "I was, vas hoping you vould let me grow it out"</p><p>"Don't be ridiculous," She snaps, and she drags him down and forces him to sit, and once she starts snipping away she does not stop until every unruly hair is trimmed, no matter how much Boris howls or cries or sniffles, or shouts, about how she's hurting him. His hair steadily falls to the floor in puffs of rusty autumn.</p><p>"Sit still," Is all she says, with a huff.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He stares at the mirror. His hair hardly reaches his ears, clipped and trimmed, proper now, his mother says. His red hair flops against his forehead, but his neck and shoulders are bare, now.</p><p>He runs his fingers through the limp, russet curls and frowns.</p><p>It's not right. It's distinctly <em> wrong. </em>Boris hates the way it looks.</p><p>He misses the soft scratch of hair across his shoulders. He hates the sight of pale green scars, poking out from the edge of his collar.</p><p>Wrong. All wrong.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Boris twirls his hair around his finger. It's gotten unruly again. He doesn't mind. His mother has gotten sick and tired of trying to tame it. It's a lost cause, she says, (you're a lost cause, she thinks, but never quite speaks aloud).</p><p>He's nervous. There's an awful, gaping, mawing pit at the bottom of his stomach. He worries the thin section of hair, now spilling nearly past his shoulders, between his fingertips.</p><p>His father glares at him. At other him, limp felt and soft red eyes. Moments from snatching him, him, other him, him, away.</p><p>"You play with dolls now, <em> boy,"</em> That word, the way it's phrased, hurts. Mocking, questioning, accusatory. It is so charged with judgement, that it makes it difficult for Boris to breathe. He is afraid, because he sounds just like mother before she cut his hair, and that <em> hurt, </em>and father is so much worse than mother in so many ways.</p><p><em> Don't take him, don't take him, me, him-me away, </em> Boris wants to cry out, but he knows that will only make it worse.</p><p>He sucks in a shuddering breath, and the stray finger not clamped around Pabit's little arm presses into the curling yarn locks, long and flowing just like Boris'.</p><p>"No," He swallows, and he steadies his tone, "No, he's not a doll"</p><p>His father doesn't believe him, and Boris is separated from Pabit for a week. Every moment is like awful, ripping tearing torture, and <em> please, give me back, I'll be better! </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The missing tooth doesn't look right, to Boris. It's wrong. Wrong just like the short hair. He simply can't mesh the way that gaping hole looks, into the way he looks. It's unnatural, it's wrong, and there's no way that's him, looking back at him.</p><p>That can't be his blood, seeping out of his mouth. That can't be his smile.</p><p>The scars, stretching diagonal across his lip, and etched into his cheek, aren't quite so bad, as the tooth gap. He's had plenty of scars, and regardless of placement, a scar is a scar is a scar.</p><p>He can wrap his head around that, at least.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Boris does not regret having long hair. It makes him feel like himself.</p><p>That doesn't make it any less of a good handhold. His father drags him out of the house by his hair, each hand wrapped in a fist full of it. Boris tears up, but doesn't cry.</p><p>"Don't come back" His father shouts, once he's on the sidewalk.</p><p>His face stings, and everything stings, and Boris is hurt, but above all he is <em>angry.</em></p><p>He won't, Boris decides, immediately. Not this time.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Boris is seventeen, when he first hits American soil. His hair reaches to his knees, has somehow grown more wild and untamed, and puffs out like a cloud. He hasn't reclaimed his missing tooth yet, but he's learned to smile close lipped, so he does not have to see it.</p><p>He's ready to take on the world.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Boris isn't certain why he still pursues Dentistry. It does not fit his perception of himself. The last thing he wants is to be a doctor of any kind.</p><p>His father was a doctor. His mother was a doctor.</p><p>He wants to be a florist. A horticulturalist. Anything related to flowers, plants, any profession where he can get his hands dirty and his gardening gloves dirtier.</p><p>Instead, he will be a doctor. A dentist.</p><p>Doctor Habit.</p><p>He makes it fit, as best he can, warps it like he warps everything else.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Kamal loves his hair.</p><p>He loves running his fingers through his curls, and sometimes he will bury his face into the locks, and just breath in his scent, that tang of rusty copper and bubblegum.</p><p>"Perfect" Kamal always says, as he gazes at Boris, and Habit always gives him an odd look, because he says the same about his smile, and his scars, and he knows that is, unarguably, untrue.</p><p>He never said that about his smile when it was fixed, when he'd finally managed to replace what he'd lost (and then some). No, Kamal regarded his smile, the one that wasn't gap toothed and wrong, with unease.</p><p>"It's not you" Kamal murmurs, against his skin, and Boris is even more confused, because it doesn't make sense.</p><p>People wanted perfection. Surely, Kamal would too. "I looked better"</p><p>"You didn't look like you. It wasn't <em> you" </em> Kamal repeats.</p><p>Boris stares at him, lips parted, dumbfounded.</p><p>"I like to think I know my boyfriend" Kamal says with a huff, sounding only a little peeved.</p><p>Boris can't help but giggle a little, at that. Kamal grins in smug satisfaction, at the sight of his gap toothed smile, and cups Boris' cheek in his hand.</p><p>"Now there's my Boris" He says, and he presses their foreheads together, presses a gentle kiss to his skin, gentle and brushing as soft flower petals, as lily petals crisp with dew, and tangles his freehand into Habit's long, curly red hair.</p><p>He is gentle, and kind, and Habit has never felt more accepted, more loved. More perfect, in some twisted, imperfect sort of way.</p><p>Kamal regards himself and Habit in the full body bathroom mirror with a smirk.</p><p>"Almost perfect" He says, and he adjusts the little black top hat on Boris' head, from his step stool. He doesn't touch a lock of Habit's hair, which now flows and curls and poofs out to his ankles. </p><p>Kamal nods in approval, so proud of himself. Boris' pink bowtie gleams in contrast with his black vest. "Now it's perfect"</p><p>He doesn't touch a single lock of his hair, though. It's already perfect just the way it is, he'd say, later.</p><p>Boris beams.</p><p> </p>
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